221B Baker Street mini stories
by ChasingPurple
Summary: Warning: overdose of sweetness/cuteness in these short drops of happiness will lead to possible addiction to happy endings. Every chapter represents a complete story. Originals written in Chinese with consent in translation/republication to ChasingPurple. Follow this link if you are interested in reading the originals: tieba dot baidu dot com/p/1707086837
1. The Case with the Lipstick

"So, what are we doing now?"

Forfeiting his plan to catch some much-needed sleep, John got up early and was dragged to St. Bart's lab by none other than Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

After the duo entered the door, John pulled up a chair and rested his chin with arm folded under him like a good student.

Sherlock has shown no sign of revealing the result of his work as he took off his jacket and fished a woman's lipstick out of the chest pocket.

The detective-chemist took off the cap, and began carefully scrutinizing the rose-colored paste inside.

"So. Finally you've decided." John wasn't going to miss a rare chance to tease Sherlock.

"What?" Sadly the potential laughingstock didn't understand the joke.

"Um….nevermind." John cleared his throat, "So this is the clue to the death of the master and the maid?"

"Obviously."

Sherlock skillfully chipped of a slice of paste and added a few drops of chemical solution to it.

After making sure John has taken out his trusty pen and notebook with his rear vision, the consulting detective began:

"I thought something was amiss the first I saw the maid's body. She didn't apply cosmetics to any part of her face save the lips. That's very unusual."

"Maybe she only liked the lipstick."

"No. Look at this brand, expensive French novelty, not something a maid can afford, I should think."

"You mean…someone had poisoned the lipstick and gave it to the maid to use?"

"I checked the maid's room, two over-sized bracelets and three outsized but expensive blouses too ill-suited to her body type or social status… also, this lipstick."

"The mistress of the house. She's quite big…she killed the maid!"

"No, she _gave_ the lipstick to the maid, didn't think it would kill her."

"I don't understand" John licked his lips with a puzzled expression written all over his face, "then…how did the man of the house die? He couldn't possibly have used this lipstick."

"On some level…yes he did."

"Come on, Sherlock…"

"Hmph." Sherlock stared up at John with twinkling eyes, "think!"

"You…they…he's cheating on the mistress with the maid?"

"Thank god John, for using your brain for the first time," quipped Sherlock, "he kissed her, thus ingesting the poison directly."

"…So the mistress found out about them, killing two birds with one stone."

"NO, no, no, no, John!" Sherlock gave an exasperating sigh, "LOOK at that woman! She wasted more tears on the maid than the husband. Not how a killer would've behaved. That lipstick was only meant to be a gift."

"Then someone must've intended to kill the lady by offering her the lipstick, but didn't know she would give it away so quickly, indirectly killing the husband too."

"Yes."

"Then we should tell Lestrade," John pulled out his phone as he spoke, "to inquire who sent the lipstick."

…

"Already dead."

"What?"

"The killer, he's already dead."

John was stunned, "Wher…where?"

"Her husband, that woman's husband." Sherlock judged John's perplexed expression with a smirk and spoke so quick as if firing bullets out of his mouth: "Take a look at his watch, exactly an hour late, which means he has been in the central European time zone, Paris, to be precise. He just came back and didn't get a chance to reset the watch. This lipstick he brought back, Christian Dior, famous French Brand, recently released, must be a gift to his wife. Oh, think about it. It can't possibly be for the maid because she wouldn't have dared to use it in front her mistress. Now, remember their house, the pictures hanging on the wall all belonged to the lady, and the only thing missing is the wedding photo. What does that mean? It means the marriage isn't a happy one. Her stupid husband gave her a gift that fits neither her clothes nor her other accessories, rather than throwing it away, she passed it onto the poor maid. Who knew something so harmless would turn out to be a homicidal weapon. Beyond that there really isn't much to be said but to marvel at the stupidity of the man. Case solved."

…

"Ah…" John sighed after jotting it all down, "the sad truth about marriage."

"Of course."

"…"

"What?"

"I was thinking," John raised an eyebrow, "if my future wife wants to wipe me off the face of the earth, what should I do to prevent it."

Sherlock let out a simper: "I'll make sure she gets what she deserves."

"But I'll still be dead!"

"So you needed me to protect you then," Sherlock said with a hesitant undertone. "Do you remember Laura?"

"Sure….But we lost touch."

"Of course, I asked Sabastian to freeze her bank account before she withdrew all your savings."

"What the…"

"And the few hundred dollars she stole from your wallet while you were on that date, I also got it back."

"Where? I didn't see them."

"Here." Sherlock poked John's belly with his fingertip, "Why did you think I'd treat you to that lobster dish?"


	2. A Night of Reminiscence

"Such an unproductive day…"

The sudden arrival of rainstorm stranded John's fishing plan. After spending the entire day watching Doctor Who reruns, the army doctor stood up and let out a long sigh.

Sherlock remained unmovable in front of his laptop.

"Well, I'm off to bed." Wasn't really expecting a reply, John turned and went up stairs to his room.

…

Five minutes later.

The mocha head appeared again on the stairs.

"Would you adopt me for the night?"

…

Who knew his fishing plan wasn't the only thing ruined by the rain.

Water dripped from the ceiling and onto John's already half-soaked bed with the measured reassurance that a good night's sleep is taken off schedule.

There's no use to wake Mrs. Hudson, it's not like she's going to make the sun come out at 11pm, so John had no choice but quickly tidied things up and headed down stairs, planning to spend the night on the sofa.

"Sherlock, do you have spare sheets? Mine is five pounds overweight in water."

The consulting detective finally moved his eyes away from the monitor for the first time tonight and directly into John's chestnut eyes.

"Corner closet. Top shelf."

…

Finally collected all his beddings needs, John dimmed the living room light and laid down on the sofa. Outside, the sound of storm and rain fashioned into a passionate duo, reminding him of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony.

"Have you heard this before?"

Alone for so long, John rarely had the occasion for a little heart to heart. He folded his arm behind his head, suddenly felt like chatting: "My granny often sang this to me when I was young, but I never learned the its name."

No response.

"_For want of a shoe the horse was lost.__  
__For want of a horse the rider was lost.__  
__For want of a rider the battle was lost…"_

John recited quietly, his finger tapped with the rhythm on his belly.

No response.

Taking no notice of the detective, the insomniac doctor went on reminiscing about his childhood –

The house they lived in…His family's immigration to Australia…the day he received his university admission…

Scraps of memories appeared and disappeared in his broken narrative.

Sherlock was silent the entire time, as if didn't register his roommate's quiet mumble.

John truly doesn't mind the detective's inattention. However, the doctor would receive an immediate correction if anything were amiss in the nostalgic narrative.

…

1am. The doctor finally adjusted his pillow and decided to go to sleep.

It was then he realized that outside, nature's recreation of the Beethoven symphony has died down, and the click-clack from Sherlock keyboard now sounds like thunder in the quiet night.

After a while of silent self-debate, John perched himself up on the sofa and stared at his restless roommate.

"Sherlock."

"What."

"Aren't you…going to sleep?"

"No. I want to type up these research results."

"Ok…" John paused for the right words, "maybe you'd consider…"

"No need to worry," Sherlock spoke as fast as he typed, "if you think your snoring will bother me. I don't mind."

"…"

Sherlock smiled as he pulled out a test tube with yellow-green solution inside: "you would be the honorary patient of my recent invention: snort-tastic."

…

((Sorry, I totally didn't know how to translate the last sentence to make it sound cute. IT JUST DOESN'T WORK! I sincerely apologize for the last bit of ooc))


	3. Happy Birthday Mr Holmes

Sherlock's Birthday [Benedict's Birthday Special]

"Don't pretend you don't understand me with that little brain of yours. I agreed that you could blog about my cases, it doesn't mean you can make it a peg to hang your own problems."  
"To peg to hang…what? Sherlock I was just telling the truth."  
"Oh for god's sake," eye roll, "look at you, you are just _begging_ for attention."

"Oh am I wrong? The eyeballs in my soup bowl, the midnight targets practice, and _more than once _you almost torn down the entire flat looking for a smoke!  
"So you'd publish it for the world to read?"

"BECAUSE that's the real you!"

"Being a doctor doesn't seem like a good career fit for you, _dear John_. You'd be so much richer If you were a paparazzi. Hey, why don't you give it a try? Let me guess. The first thing you'd do after getting paid is to scramble out of this hellhole, getting rid of"Sherlock the mess maker"!"

…

The door slamming shut with an angry _maybe_ as John stormed out of 221B.  
_For fuck's sake, why is it me that has to hide every time!_  
Now he finally understood why Sherlock doesn't know the solar system revolves around the sun, because he thinks that _he_, the omniscient _Sherlock_ _Holmes_, is the center of the universe.

_What a nice day_, thought John as he walked through a beautiful little park, _such a pity to be wasted in anger…_

_Especially…not today_

…

"He went out." said Mrs. Hudson as John opened the door. "In such a bad mood too. _awh"_

"Well, it's Sherlock we are dealing with." John pretended a fake smile.  
"He forgot he's phone, too."Mrs. Hudson is clearly worried, "he never make stupid mistakes like this….what was the fight about"  
"….I forgot." John wasn't lying. Why _did _they fight again?

"Don't worry, I'll go find him."

…

St. Bart's Laboratory.

Sherlock is clearly focused on some experiment as John walked in, still wearing the black suit jacket, holding a test tube in one hand; florescent light emitting a chill glow above him, showering down on the emaciated silhouette.

Hearing the noise, Sherlock's eyes flickered up for a moment, then returned to his experiment without so much of an acknowledgement.  
John stood at the end of the long lab table, starring at the unmissabled young man.

Just like the first day they met.

…

Time stealthily walked on. In the frozen silence, only the occasional clicking between the flask and the test tube can be heard.  
Finally, someone couldn't endure any longer –  
"I need to send a text, but forgot my phone"  
John wanted to laugh, he reached over into the back pocket: "um..here, use mine."

Sherlock found himself looking into a pair of warm chestnut eyes: "Ah, thank you."

Stood up, walked closer, and held out his hands –

"Afghanistan or Ir…" he would've continued on with their little game if not for the soft velvety box that replaced John's phone.

"Happy birthday, Sherlock."

…

Sherlock stood expressionless, caressing the box's soft shell.  
"I don't do birthdays."

"I know."

…  
After what seemed like an eternity, someone broke into a quiet giggle, it grew louder and louder until both of them are enjoying a full on laughing fit.  
Sherlock opened the box. Inside, a bullet glared back with piercing chill.

…

"Here," John pointed to his left shoulder, "they took it out from here."

"I know," pinching the bullet between his two fingers, Sherlock smiled: "is this supposed to serve as a reminder to me that you were a soldier?"

"No. This is the last part of me." John swallowed. "The last piece of the former John Watson."

"When I first came back to London, I thought the world has abandoned me. My best, most interesting and memorable years have gone by just like that. I don't belong in this world, and it has no use of someone like me. I have nothing…no family, no money, not even somewhere I call home.

I'm no different from a retired old geezer. What's worse, there are still many years to endure.

Even though I'd never admit, but Sherlock, all this, all this that I am, that have become of John Watson, is because of you.

You are incredibly, unrealistically…brilliant.

You made such a mess in my life. Like an idiot, I followed you everyday, everywhere, whenever, wherever.

You….you took that cursed crutch from me, and instilled companionship in its place.

I am so ordinary. Unlike you, Sherlock, loneliness…it kills me.

…  
"Sherlock, can you…could you say something? Anything. I feel like an idiot."  
It was the first time the reserved, traditional, tough-military-man John Watson opened up to anyone. Not even his psychiatrist has had the honor. But his confident sat like a tree stool, mute, motionless. At the sight, John felt the indignation is slowly rising back in his throat.

…

"Do you want a hug?" Sherlock's eyes sparkled with unusual brightness, trained on John's face like a pair of spotlight, with a hint of warmness and understanding.

"What?" _Did Sherlock just say, hug?_

"Yes hug. That's what people do in these situations, no? I just wanted your approval in case you…"

…

"Su, sure…" Whether from shock or hesitance, maybe a bit of both, John stood stunned, but opened his arms as Sherlock came closer.

…

It was a strong but short hug.  
Warmth flowed from one body to another. Sadly. It fled as quickly as it had come.

An unexplainable awkwardness separated the two men.

"Well…we should probably head back. Mrs. Hudson made cakes."

…

"Happy Birthday, my dear Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson approached them gleefully, tiptoed to give Sherlock a hug and a kiss on the cheeks.

"Why are you here." Sherlock looked reproachfully at the Detective Inspector on the couch.

"Why? To celebrate your birthday." Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

He originally came for a case, but ended up finishing half a pack of beer under Mrs. Hudson's persuasion.  
"Really." Replied Sherlock sarcastically.

" . .ly" Out of no where Lestrade held out a plate full of whip cream, with a quarter of mischief and three quarters vengeance, plastered the entire thing onto the right side of Sherlock's face.  
Snow white cream completely covered Sherlock's right eye, bits held on to his ear and mingled with the unruly curls.

It's a hilarious scene, but no one dared to laugh.

For the uncovered side of Sherlock's face remained sternly emotionless. He stood like a statue with a warning sign, emitting a dangerous vibe.

Lestrade's mischievous grin froze; the entire room went into an awkward silence.

…

"Um…come on Sherlock…it's your birthday…" John finally let out a hushed squeal, attempted to save Lestrade from "accidently falling out of the window"

Before he could finish, Sherlock suddenly took off his suit jacket with ferocious energy and swung it over Lestrade's head. Pulling the blinded inspector with him, the consulting detective dashed to the table with two quick strides, cut off a piece of cake with his free hand, yanked the jacket off and crushed the cake into the inspector's nose, successfully wiping off the disoriented look.  
Suddenly the room exploded with flying cakes and loud laughs.  
John attempted to escape the fight but with no avail, the three of them soon set up forts against one another in the room.

Even the innocent bystander Mrs. Hudson couldn't avoid the shower of white and red flakes exploding and dotting her summer dress with vibrancy and mischief.

…

This is how Sherlock spent his birthday. He still didn't know whether to feel happy or embarrassed as he reminiscent back to that day.  
Thank goodness no one remembered to take pictures. This memory remained only in Sherlock's mind. Year after year, fermenting with saccharine beauty, never once forgotten.


	4. Anderson's Blog

**ANDERSON'S BLOG (LEADING MEDICAL EXAMINER AT SCOTLAND YARD)**

_February 20__th_

Many thanks to freak Mr. Sherlock Holmes! Bestowed by your generosity I've been working overtime for the past few days checking scars on burnt corpses that has been dead for over a year and a half!

For fuck's sake they've been dead for over 400 days! How am I supposed to find "vital wounds created on these bodies before they were set on fire."

Now even the sight of lamb skewers makes me nauseous.

No need for that omniscient freak , I know EXACTLY how I'm gonna die - Overworked by charred dead bodies.

I wonder what they are gonna write for my epitaph…

Comment section (1)—-

Sherlock Holmes: "Medical Examiner Anderson has been an indispensable part of the Scotland yard forensics team. In order to solve a crime, while others are faced with complicated clues or dead victims, he only needed to face _the other way."_


End file.
